


Got Your Chain

by TeaCub90



Series: King of The Castle [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Has OCD (Good Omens), Character of Faith, Crowley has EDS, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hope, Lockdown boyfriends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23597908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Do you need a hug?’
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: King of The Castle [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676554
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Got Your Chain

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for bringing another current times'-inspired piece to the feed, but I find this selfishly cathartic. Over the last month, my mental health has been truly appalling to deal with and continues to be in the present moment. But, I'm hoping to find hope with fanfiction; good thoughts and vibes are much appreciated in these most difficult of times. I'm ashamed of myself for not being able to cope better, as many others have been; there are people out there far, far worse than I and yet I've been worrying, excessively and obsessively, about my religion. Hoping for love, hoping for safety for all, hoping for a light in the dark. 
> 
> And I hope that some of you can find comfort with this. <3

* * *

‘Do you need a hug?’

Crowley asks the question when he catches Aziraphale staring out of the window for the third time that day, the sunlight streaming in, casting light on the books, a temptation to all and sundry. Except they can’t go outside – except the world is empty – except Aziraphale has to stay put in his shop, with his books and Crowley, shut the door on the world with very limited freedoms until they’re told it’s okay to do otherwise.

And from the looks of things, that will be a while yet.

When all this first began, he thought he would be alright. Staying in from the world a while – with the chance to read and reread his favourite materials and surely with enough resources to see him through – seemed, at the start, to be such a comforting and wonderful prospect. Having the company of his dearest Crowley was even better; neither of them would have to be alone and Crowley had brought a load of clothes and records over, settled in with him to ride this out.

But now, it’s harder. Now, Aziraphale finds it difficult – more and more so – to get up in the mornings; finds himself besieged by the same anxieties from the day before. Of all the times to be triggered into a crisis, it would have to be now – he’s fallen into old, bad habits from long ago and he knows that Crowley knows; knows that he feels 17 again with the weight of his fears. With the firm rug of the world as it was pulled out from under his feet, he’s left with the fright of the world as it is now – even if so, so much of it is beyond his control.

And he’s shaking more; worrying more; eating less. His book-pile hasn’t got so much as a dent in it. He’s not been able to concentrate on any of his reading for days; to concentrate on anything that brings him joy inside; there’s a cold hole in his stomach, an ongoing tremor that makes his hands shake, on the keyboard of his computer, in the turning of the page of a book he can only manage to stay with for a small while before the words start to swim and he has to stop, in fear of a headache.

And Crowley – Crowley with his own health conditions; who is the only face he sees every single day, the only voice he hears and whom he fears losing, more than anything in this world – has noticed. The lack of routine has got to them both; the lack of plants to shout at, the running out of books to restore, and that need, that sheer, irreproachable need that they have to keep tamping down _to just go outside._ Aziraphale is reluctant to let Crowley out of his sight, in case he falls over and there’s nobody around to help him; Crowley is reluctant to leave Aziraphale alone with his fears.

All in all, they’re at something of an impasse.

Now, with the pair of them having spent another afternoon not doing much – Aziraphale carrying out a vague bit of restoration for a customer he most likely won’t be seeing for a good couple of months anyway – and Crowley trying another boxset on his laptop, grimacing at the signal – the sun streaming in and warming the place with the cruellest of temptations, Crowley has pulled himself up on his feet and is watching Aziraphale watching the windows. There’s no disguising the longing on his own face, Aziraphale realises and watches as, smiling, Crowley shifts his cane to the other hand, holds out his palm.

‘I…’ Aziraphale frowns, looks at the clock for all the good it does. Time is meaningless now; a tiredness of time nips at their heels, an all-day drag that they can’t shake themselves out of. They must see it through and see it through the long way.

Crowley sighs; this is, Aziraphale realises belatedly, the first time they’ve really spoken to each other all day. ‘Come on, angel. Let’s lie down together for a bit. Have a cuddle.’

When Crowley asks for a cuddle, you know it’s serious. Well. Aziraphale looks at the vagaries of the project in front of him that will still be here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and he sighs; get to his feet, takes Crowley’s hand and lets himself be led to the bedroom; _his_ bedroom technically, but theirs now and in moments like this, he’s glad to not have to wake up alone.

Crowley settles his cane against his own bedside table (brought especially for him, along with a lamp, when they first got together) and starts to strip off, giving Aziraphale a smile that’s neither suggestive or particularly…anything, really. Just tired. Defeated by this day and all the days like it.

Silently, Aziraphale follows suit, the layers of the clothes he puts on so optimistically every morning, falling off him now like a second skin that feels, frankly, useless – and he never thought for one minute he would be saying that about his bowties. Anathema had texted them the other day; checks in on them daily, keeps them amused with predictions and funny texts – apparently the dear girl is currently going bra-free, ‘viva la revolution, boys!’. Newt must be delighted, Aziraphale thinks with a quirk of the lips as he strips down to his white pants, lets his clothes sully the floor, feeling a sheer lack of need for them just then. He could do his work in his dressing-gown, he supposes – but he does have standards.

They both climb into bed, leave the curtains open to let the sun in; Crowley rising his face to it a little before they snuggle in together, the sheets-sun warm, the room full of a little extra glow which is…rather cheering just then, actually. Even to a man with the darkest thoughts of anxiety skimming around his head, it’s a comfort.

They wriggle around to get comfortable and then Crowley turns, wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s body and just like that, Aziraphale starts to cry.

‘Ssssh, sh, sh, angel,’ Crowley whispers, nuzzling him. ‘Sssh, sh, sh. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale shakes his head at the ceiling, feeling utterly pathetic. ‘I’m so – so sorry, Crowley. This wasn’t what I envisaged for us.’

‘I don’t think it’s what anyone _envisaged,’_ Crowley shushes softly, with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale turns his head, almost desperate, to receive it, finds himself shaking.

‘Crowley?’

Crowley wraps his arms firmly around him, props his chin on his shoulder. ‘Yeah?’

‘I wish we could just…go to sleep,’ Aziraphale murmurs. ‘Here, now; together. And – not wake up until…this was all over.’

He feels silly saying it, but Crowley chuffs; his sunglasses are on the bedside table and his eyes are a bit damp. ‘Yep. That’s what I’ve been thinking. I know. I know,’ he shushes; places a hand on Aziraphale’s quivering chest. ‘I know it seems scary right now – but think about it. World Wars 1 and 2 must’ve been scary. The London fog must’ve been scary. The miners’ strike must’ve been scary.’

‘Well,’ Aziraphale gives a shaken sort of chuckle. ‘Quite. We’re lucky, really, aren’t we?’

‘Yep,’ Crowley gives a dip of the head. ‘Lucky.’ They stare at each other for a while, from the haven of a shared pillow. Then, they both surge forward at the same time and kiss, desperately and dearly, holding onto one another like a raft at sea. Sometimes, that’s how it feels; as though the world has sunk and it’s just them, clinging to wood to survive the torrent and tide. Aziraphale knows this is nonsense, of course – there are people out there, they just can’t come outside. Nobody can and it’s frightening.

‘There’s no distraction, is there?’ Crowley mutters beneath his chin; worrying his bottom lip. ‘Like, we can’t just – normally, when one of us is bad, we can go out somewhere. I can take you driving, if you need it, or you walk with me around the area. But there’s,’ his face twists, frustrated, _‘nothing.’_

Aziraphale nods, stroking his hair in the afternoon sunlight; much like the eye of the Almighty peeking through the windows at them, tinting Crowley’s hair a delicious gold, lightening the edges of his face. They don’t speak, just let the light fall upon them, both closing their eyes and Aziraphale can’t help but murmur a prayer: _In these times of uncertainty and fear, please, guide us through, O Lord._ The beautiful thing is? It doesn’t even feel like a compulsion.

‘Is it…here?’ he asks, with a nod out of the bedroom door. ‘Is it…not helping?’ Crowley, he’s noticed, has been coming up and down the stairs a lot, something in his behaviour restless. Sometimes moving around the shop, inspecting the shelves; reading the paper; anything, as long as Aziraphale is in the vicinity.

But then – the atmosphere seems to get too much for him – even when they compromise and play Queen records instead of classical – and he heads back up again after a while or so, as though the atmosphere is somehow offensive to him.

‘Are you…not happy here?’ He braces himself for the possibility of Crowley answering in the affirmative; the possibility that tomorrow he might take advantage of his daily allocated walk to walk straight back across the road with his luggage; back to his own space and not return.

‘Weellllllllllllll, it’s got its challenges,’ Crowley replies honestly, lightly, tongue between his teeth. ‘But angel, whether I’m here or not – it’s not going to make much difference to the pain, is it? And you know,’ he affects a nonchalant tone, tilts his head in the other direction, deliberately lofty, picking at a random spot on the duvet; a sure sign he’s about to say something incredibly sweet. ‘At the end of the day, I’d much rather be here, with you, than…hobbling about over there by myself. Even if one of us isn’t having a good day. I know you’ve been Googling, angel,’ he adds, gentle voice bordering on stern, with a press of the nose to Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale closed his eyes, caught.

‘Yes. I know.’ He has been; googling theological answers to theological questions in these times of quiet and henceforth getting himself tangled up into theological knots and even more afraid along the way; rather badly keeping it secret from Crowley, whom he’s been watching out of the corner of his eye, limping and grimacing.

Really, what seemed like heaven at first glance – essentially closed away with his love – has turned into a miserable experience; feeling lonely in the mornings while Crowley has had long, long lie-ins, but unsure what exactly to say to him when he finally gets up, conversation between the two of them somehow seeming dried up, and his anxious, babbling thoughts always at the centre of his mind, making him quiet, withdrawn. They’ve held hands a lot, sat together, eaten whatever they’ve been able to get from the shops, washed up in silence. Countless cups of tea and cocoa have been made, to fill the silence than anything else and quite frankly, the caffeine hasn’t helped Aziraphale’s trembling hands, getting worse and worse over his brushes and equipment; trembling he knows that Crowley’s noticed with a glance over his glasses.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ Crowley says, to his surprise. ‘for being lazy. And a grouchy bastard. I just…I hate the fact that I can’t even really go out for a drive – and even if I do, the police might stop me.’

‘I hate it when you go out at all,’ Aziraphale confesses. ‘I worry about you ever so much and the fact that you might not be happy here. And…’ he sighs, feeling selfish. ‘That you might…’

He feels that cat-like gaze on him, that sharp chin on his chest. ‘What?’

‘You might want nothing more to do with me when this is over,’ Aziraphale says, in a very quiet tone – gets a hiss, a hand to his chest and a pair of lips coming over his own in a firm, unyielding kiss.

‘Don’t say that,’ Crowley chides. ‘Don’t ever say that. I’m shacked up with you because I _like_ you, angel. Why? Do you not…?’

He blinks up at him, suddenly vulnerable and Aziraphale shakes his head, hasty.

‘What? No! No, no, no! Of course not!’ he places his hand back into Crowley’s hair, protective. ‘I love you dearly, Crowley and I’m not – I don’t want that to change.’ He sighs, defeated.

‘I’m frightened, is the thing,’ he explains; explains his truth, one halting, honest word at a time. ‘When we – when we got together, I was so excited for the future, I was so happy to be with you. We had all these plans we’d begun to make, all these places we wanted to go – even when we were just friends, my life felt…so much brighter, just by your being in it. You make me look beyond myself,’ he sighs, stroking the back of a finger down Crowley’s cheek and it’s the clearest declaration of love he can make; Crowley is bigger and more real and more wonderful than all of his fears, all that has dogged him for years. ‘And now I’m scared to even to look to tomorrow, in case what’s there is… terrible. In case I lose you. In _any_ sense of the word.’

‘Oh, angel,’ Crowley croaks; leans up and gives him another kiss; holds his palm to his cheek. ‘Angel…’

His words filter away into nothing; into kisses that he gives Aziraphale, over and over, as they hold one another in bed, the sun lowering and darkening, leaving a lemonade-like visage over the far-horizon, just as deserted out there as it is over here. In different circumstances, they might have sat on the bench outside, cuddled in the evening light as they watched it go down, before they wandered off to find dinner.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Crowley murmurs in the gap between their mouths; Aziraphale shivers, both at the sensation and at the words because right now, it feels too much like tempting fate. ‘Angel, I’m not leaving. Even when things get bad, I won’t leave you. Alright?’

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale can only sigh; is firmly shushed in return, a finger falling over his lips.

‘These are hard times for everyone,’ he says quietly, ‘there’s not – it’s not divine judgement, or people being punished, or you…having to change yourself at all during this time; you’re not being asked to repent before God or anything like that. I know that’s what you’re thinking,’ he punctuates it again with another kiss, ‘you’re searching for that right feeling; you’re asking questions because you think you need to change yourself during this time. But the fact is – there aren’t any right feelings. This all just happened, angel, to all of us, and we’re already dealing with it as best we can.’

Aziraphale sighs, holds Crowley close, protective; rests his cheek atop his head, moisture born of both equal parts sadness and relief squeezing out, staring over his head at the last dregs of the sunset. How well his dear Crowley knows him.

‘I’m sorry I’ve not been there for you,’ he murmurs.

‘Likewise,’ Crowley mutters into his chest. ‘But we’ve both been _here._ And that’s enough.’ He kisses Aziraphale’s chest and they stay like that a while, let the light fade, holding hands and cuddling close in their own, shared silence; a much nicer silence than that which has plagued them both previously, like they’re both in their own, separate squares of deafening quiet, with no way to penetrate the other; no way of finding a door or a window to join the other, or let the other one out.

No wonder they were both struggling, Aziraphale marvels in hindsight.

‘Maybe we _should_ stay here in bed until it’s all over,’ Crowley remarks lightly at last.

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale chuckles. ‘That would be nice. Sleep for a couple of months – though I imagine that wouldn’t be too hard for you,’ he adds, teasing, with another kiss.

‘Hm, leave some room along the way for the more _adult_ activities,’ Crowley purrs; nuzzles his giggling mouth, his blushing cheeks. ‘Seriously, though. Imagine we could. Just… _hide,’_ he pronounces the last word with a put-upon panache and Aziraphale nods, seriously, sensing his desire to disappear into a cave of coverlets, only waking when the news turns good again and the world alights into better days. ‘And _then_ we could go on a date.’

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale murmurs, wistful, as they twine their fingers together. He misses their dates; even when they were best friends alone, such outings were lovely, the highlight of his days. ‘That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? Perhaps one day, we could – I don’t know. Go for a picnic,’ he smiles at the thought, such a far-gone possibility now.

‘Hm, might even take you to the Ritz,’ Crowley murmurs thoughtfully and Aziraphale feels his heart clench – they’d been talking about getting reservations there before all this happened. ‘Dinner _and_ staying overnight, I think.’ He gives a truly delicious smirk that makes Aziraphale shiver, despite the current cosiness.

‘Back to the theatre,’ he adds, regaining his senses promptly, with a wistful tone, running his fingers through that red hair again; always a grounding force, as much as anything. ‘The Globe, the West End…Oh, Shakespeare…’

 _‘Not_ one of his gloomy ones, though, thanks,’ Crowley holds up an index finger and Aziraphale hides his smirking lips in his hair. ‘We could go back to that massive bookshop with that ridiculous amount of floors…’

‘Fortnum and Mason’s,’ Aziraphale almost moans with longing. ‘Oh, we had cream tea there, one day, do you remember? After we saw We Will Rock You.’

‘I remember thinking you don’t need _that_ many floors in a bookshop,’ Crowley retorts softly, even as he hums the musical’s theme to himself tapping his fingers against his chest in time to it, singing the refrain under his breath. ‘Ooooh… _you_ spilled hot chocolate all over that diplomat in St. James’ Park,’ he grins suddenly, rakishly, craning his neck to beam up at Aziraphale. ‘When we were arguing, remember? About some theological debate and you tossed some bird-feed at me, you horrible angel.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Aziraphale sighs, smiling in memory. ‘Caught the poor fellow on the bench behind us off-guard and he spilled his drink all over his trousers.’ Crowley laughs again, Aziraphale nosing at his hair, rubbing his pale shoulders. ‘Poor fellow. But, he _was_ ever so rude – and you were ever so brave to defend me.’

He smiles to think of it – not of the man wiping at the chocolate stains on his trousers, threatening to sue Aziraphale for everything he had, but of Crowley, fixing the man with a glare from behind his glasses, swinging his cane in a full-circle before pointing it in the direction of the offending diplomat’s heart in a way that spoke volumes, hissing like a snake sticking out its tongue; threatening enough to make the fellow back well away. Protective of Aziraphale in a way nobody else has ever been; he’s always been an outsider, content with his books where organised religion failed to fill the gap. Considers the quacks of the ducks, who are probably wondering where all the dog-walkers, tourists and commuters have disappeared off to; the ice-creams that Crowley always buys him; the hundreds of little restaurants where they’ve wined and dined, now sitting empty.

The look on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale told him, not too long ago, how much he loved him. The slam and start of his own heart when Crowley had told him how much he loved him _back._

But – they’re _together._ They’re here, in this shelter and beyond these walls, these windows, Aziraphale knows there are many worse off than them; says a prayer for them, continuing to stroke Crowley’s hair softly, for the safety of as many people as is humanly possible throughout this thing and thanking the Almighty that he, at least, is fortunate enough to be home and secure with the love of his life. It makes him feel even guiltier for not making more of it – but still. His disorder tends to get worse in a crisis.

And they’re getting better at communicating, clearly, even after years of knowing one another. So, there’s that.

‘You wanna…watch a film, or something?’ Crowley asks eventually, craning his neck back up to look at him, lazily; Aziraphale considers it for a moment, the fact that quite literally, neither of them have anywhere better to be, or anything to do. A depressing thought, but right now, a welcome one. All things considered, were the world to end tomorrow, this would be the best possible place for the pair of them and that thought is far more comforting than it has any right to be.

‘Let’s just stay here for a minute,’ he suggests, laying kisses upon Crowley’s fingertips. The table-cloth blue line of the horizon outside gives way to the first stars of the sky. Crowley grins, his mouth a white half-moon as he snuggles down against Aziraphale’s chest, clearly contented; the man who feels like the one clarity, the one real sense, the one answer, above the dozens of imagined fears that haunt his mind on a bad day.

Well. They’ll just have to work on that, won’t they? And Aziraphale would rather take a few bad days with his love safely beside him in all of this, over not having him here at all.

In time, Crowley dozes off against his chest. And Aziraphale, much to his own surprise, finds himself drifting off too, warm and safe and entirely in good company.

They don’t leave the bed again for a while after that – all night really, and well into the next day – but that’s alright, really. 

*

A few days later, Aziraphale triumphantly finishes repairing a book at the dining-table in the flat; feels a flush of something pleasant as he sits back to stare at his handiwork. He feels something like pride in his chest; silly perhaps, considering it’s one small thing, but the prospect of having finished _something_ is too good to resist. He glances at the clock and smiles further: tea-time. These days aren’t perfect but this, for one, has been a perfectly respectable way to spend an afternoon; all in all, he can’t help but feel rather pleased with himself.

 _Small victories,_ he recalls his psychologist saying to him years ago, _small victories, Aziraphale._

Sitting up and yawning, placing the book aside, he glances around for Crowley; realises with a start that it’s been a while since he saw him. His love disappeared downstairs some time ago; for what, Aziraphale can’t imagine, but he was so engrossed in his work for once that he wasn’t really paying attention to much else. He curses himself for that now, as he descends the stairs in trepidation.

‘Crowley,’ he calls softly, willing himself not to sound panicked; overprotective. ‘My love?’

‘Down here, angel,’ Crowley’s voice reaches him from the ground floor of the bookshop; sighing with relief, he descends the stairs down only to find the most extraordinary sight.

Crowley has the laptop out; it’s on the table, surrounded by speakers, obviously brought over from his place across the road. The lamp has been moved to cast a more intimate light over the setting, with a bowl of popcorn and a tub of Haagan Dazs that Aziraphale vaguely recalls seeing in the fridge. Next to the laptop a vase has been set up, filled with the models of flowers that Crowley created in his shop for display purposes; and while he knows very well that they’re fake, he can’t help but exclaim at the loveliness of the colours.

‘Oh! My dear.’ Moved, he turns to Crowley. ‘What’s – what’s all this?’

‘Weeeell, it’s Friday night,’ Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale realises with a start that yes, it is; how he’s forgotten the procession of days, silly him! ‘I thought I’d take you on a date. Or…’ He waves a hand around at the created loveliness. ‘This, anyway. I even found some ice-cream. And the popcorn comes from my cupboard; I had a whole unopened bag of the stuff. Checked the sell-by-date, it’s fine.’

He’s gripping his cane, standing with a hand on his hip, staring hard at his handiwork with the air of a boy who’s made a Valentine’s card for his teacher but wants to seem cool while handing it over. ‘Anyway, Lloyd-Webber’s released his latest musical, I thought we could watch it. Or the National Theatre, if you prefer,’ he adds, hastily, ‘or, we can download a film. Sky’s the limit – mmff!’

‘My darling,’ Aziraphale is beaming when they finally part; when he’s released Crowley from the deep, fierce kiss he’s pulled him into. ‘What an absolutely _splendid_ notion. And you even brought flowers!’

‘Hey, yeah,’ Crowley attempts to look suave rather than pink, adjusting his glasses from where they sit atop his nose with something of a smirk. ‘I mean, they were just sitting in the shop not doing anything.’ He gives a surreptitious sniff. ‘You know. Good to have a project.’

‘I’m sure,’ Aziraphale gazes lovingly up at him, leans into his shoulder; this one person, this man, whom he is more sure about in his life than anything else; than any of the clawing questions and doubts his OCD buries into his brain on a daily basis. ‘Thankyou, my darling.’ He hugs him close for a long moment, calmer for the first time in a while. What a wonderful day this has been.

‘Right,’ Crowley manages. ‘Well, have a seat. Sorry I can’t do the whole, y’know, pulling the chair out thing for you, I’ll do it when we manage to get ourselves out to dinner again. I’ll get the drinks – you choose the performance.’

They snuggle together that evening on the sofa, Crowley resting in Aziraphale’s lap, Aziraphale stroking his hair as they watch Lloyd-Webber’s latest release on Youtube and for the first time in weeks, Aziraphale finds himself truly content; finds himself marvelling, with a glance at Crowley in his arms, at the power of human resilience. What things we can do, he considers, even when we’re trapped. But then, he should know. He’s surrounded by books which detail the best of humanity during the worst times in life; but he also has the best of humanity here with him, in his arms, in his heart.

They share popcorn, laugh and even sing along (Crowley will deny it later, of course) enjoy their date to the full; follow the musical with a comedy on Amazon Prime, during which Crowley dozes off on his lap and Aziraphale just takes the time to savour this, this domestic normality, just for them; strokes Crowley's hair, and smiles into the darkness of the bookshop, his books merely dim outlines by the glow of the lamp.

They will endure.

*


End file.
